


Learning

by Alasse_Irena



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 18:25:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1698161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alasse_Irena/pseuds/Alasse_Irena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hogwarts AU: canon era, but at Hogwarts.<br/>In which Combeferre meets Feuilly, some serious flaws in the wizarding education system are revealed, and pencils turn out to be a really great implement that more Hogwarts students should use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning

Combeferre couldn’t have said what it was that woke him, but he’d always been a light sleeper, so he couldn’t say he was surprised, either. Maybe it was just that somewhere in the back of his mind, his dreaming self had remembered the fascinating book on the use of emotion in certain deeply forbidden spells he had been reading and hadn’t wanted to wait any longer to finish it. (Combeferre had a very simple attitude to banned books, which essentially boiled down to _I’d like to see you try_ , and besides, he was certain the same principles could be applied to more honourable magics.) He rolled out of bed, curling his bare toes into the thick carpet for warmth, and headed downstairs to the comfort of the Common Room, with the intention of rekindling the fire and at least finishing a chapter.

Apparently, though, certain things had to be contended with first. Combeferre rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs to find someone already on the floor by the hearth, head bent over a book in the light of an uncertain, flickering fire. He looked secretive, which Combeferre appreciated the irony of: he himself had been about to stroll in, build up a roaring fire and sprawl in an armchair with a lamp on the table beside him to read a book that was, to his knowledge, banned in seven countries and restricted in several more. (Another of Combeferre’s opinions on banned books: one can’t solve a problem by trying to hide it.)

The boy looked up, startled, and slammed the book shut. He was only a first year - just a child, Combeferre thought, with the infinite and superior wisdom of two additional years. The face was familiar, narrow and freckled, with sharp cheekbones and wide hazel eyes, but Combeferre had only met the new batch of Ravenclaw first years a handful of days before, and, engrossed as he was in the final volume of his subversive holiday reading, he had yet to tie names to faces.

“Evening,” said Combeferre, though morning would probably have been more accurate. He approached the fireplace slowly and and sat on the arm of a soft blue couch at an unthreatening distance. The boy had an expression comprised of equal parts guilt, wariness and curiosity, which reminded Combeferre of himself - a younger version of himself, who had yet to become used to the fact that no-one cared what he was reading at three in the morning in the Ravenclaw Common Room.

He rested his book on his knee and opened to his remembered page number. He was desperate to know what the other boy was reading, but instinct suggested this was a delicate operation, not unlike tempting a bird to eat from one’s hand, and in the mean time, Antimony Babbage’s prose style was both eloquent and engaging in a surprisingly conversational way, considering her sinister subject matter.

A moment later, he looked up, searching for a quill and ink to make a note about what appeared to be a wandless, wordless spell used by certain groups in New South Wales to combat a melancholic temperament (one of the most excellent things about this book was that, having been delivered to him by a friend in America (who had cleverly utilised the Muggle postal service to do so, avoiding the attention of both nations’ magical authorities), it was his own, rather than an illicit loan from the Restricted Section of the library, and thus he was entitled to underline entire passages and make lengthy contributions in the margins). The boy was still watching him, his expression guarded.

“I don’t suppose,” Combeferre ventured, unwilling to head upstairs and risk waking his classmates, “that you’d have a quill on you?”

The boy frowned and shook his head. “I have a pencil,” he offered after a moment.

“A pencil?” Combeferre repeated. That delightful Muggle invention! He had seen one once before, in an exhibition of Muggle curiosities (“Having yet to master the art of making ink,” the placard had read, “Muggles make marks on parchment using cylinders of charcoal encased in book.” Combeferre had serious doubts that Muggles were having trouble developing ink, given their penchant for printing books, not to mention the assertion that the pencil’s core was charcoal: it looked far too dense and far too reflective for that), but he had never managed to acquire the Muggle money to buy one, and, unwilling to transgress Muggle law without understanding the consequences, had yet to examine one properly. “A pencil would be perfect,” he told the boy. “There’s nothing I’d like better.”

The boy’s frown deepened. Combeferre suspected he’d been a little too enthusiastic. “It’s mine. I want it back after.”

“Of course,” Combeferre reassured him. “I’m only taking a few notes. I’ll return it before I go to bed.”

The boy stood up and came over to Combeferre, a stubby but sharp pencil in his hand. “Here. Careful of it. I’ve only got one.”

“Thank you.” Combeferre turned the object over in his fingers. “Thank you very much.”

He flipped to the inside cover of his book and drew the tip of the pencil across the page, producing a thin, dark line, which he rubbed at with his finger. It barely smudged. The precision of the point was incredible, and yet with the flat edge of the tip, he could produce a lovely shading effect. He wondered if the boy would lend it to him again, perhaps tomorrow. He wanted to try some botanical sketches with it.

At any rate, he was certain of one thing: it was definitely not charcoal.

The boy was still watching him, now more with curiosity than anything else. “Haven’t you got pencils at home?”

“No,” said Combeferre. “I’ve always wanted to have a look at one.”

“Wizards are pretty useless, then.”

Combeferre caught himself before he took offence, thinking of the plaque at the museum that had assured him Muggles were unable to make ink. And yet here they were, not only with the printing press, but with this masterful little drawing implement, too. “I suppose they are, in some ways.”

The boy nodded. “Sorry,” he said. “You’re probably all right, personally, I mean.”

“You flatter me,” said Combeferre, unable to keep a hint of laughter from his voice. “Sorry, what’s your name?”

“Feuilly.”

“Combeferre. Nice to meet you.”

Feuilly gave him a smile, surprisingly bright and unselfconscious. Combeferre smiled back and returned to his book, flicking through the pages to find the passage he’d been intending to annotate. The pencil left thin grey lines under the words he underlined, neat and unobtrusive.

“What’s it made of?” he asked, unable to help himself.

“Not lead,” said Feuilly, straight away. “Graphite.”

Graphite. The word was unfamiliar to Combeferre, but it had the taste and shape of that peculiar magicless alchemy that Muggles apparently practised. “And what’s graphite made of?”

Feuilly shrugged. “I asked people. I didn’t find anyone who knew. I think they mine it somewhere.”

Combeferre mentally underlined a note he had already made to himself suggesting he obtain some texts about this chemistry and find out how it worked. (There was an auxiliary mental note attached regarding the investigation of Muggle money; perhaps Feuilly could help him with that too.)

They lapsed into silence, both applying themselves to their respective reading. Combeferre only looked up when Feuilly settled on the other end of the couch, and then again a handful of minutes later to see that the battered copy of The Standard Book of Spells - the first edition, not the recent reprint - still open on chapter one, and that the roll of parchment spread out on Feuilly’s knee was still blank.

“Do you need a hand with something?" Combeferre offered. He enjoyed tutoring, and it had always appeared a great oversight to him that Hogwarts never seemed to teach research or note-taking skills.

“No,” said Feuilly, too quickly. Combeferre waited. “A little,” Feuilly amended.

Combeferre slid off the arm of the couch and over to Feuilly. “What can I do?”

There was a long silence. Feuilly looked steadily at the first page of The Standard Book of Spells, avoiding Combeferre’s eyes.

“Don’t laugh,” he said at last. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I wouldn’t,” said Combeferre. He could have added that ignorance was the natural state of man, but he wasn’t sure how well Feuilly would take that. Instead, he said, “A minute ago, I had never seen a pencil. So if I start laughing, you have something over me, too.”

Silence, but at least Feuilly squared his shoulders and met Combeferre’s eyes. “Professor Hargrove gave us an essay to write.”

“All right,” said Combeferre. If there was one thing he knew how to do, it was explain how to write an essay.

“I mean,” said Feuilly, “I can write my name.”

“That’s a start,” said Combeferre, ready to summarise the structure of a short essay, go through the textbook for helpful material, start making some sort of plan, when it sunk in exactly what Feuilly meant.

“Oh,” said Combeferre. “Oh.”

In spite of himself,  he was at a loss for words. He had always known that Hogwarts accepted students from all backgrounds - wealthy, poor, magical, Muggle - and considering what he knew about literacy rates among the Muggle working class, it was highly likely that there were students invited to attend Hogwarts who had never learnt to read.

Feuilly looked down at his hands. “They’ll send me home,” he said. “It was a mistake. I shouldn’t be here.”

“Well,” said Combeferre, at last. “We don’t want that. I suppose I’d better teach you before they do.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's still short a satisfying ending, but it's been lurking on my computer for a while, so I thought it was about time.  
> Hope you enjoyed.


End file.
